Nights That Never End
by lizook
Summary: He's still working at his desk now, an album playing softly, and there are times when she can feel his eyes on her.


**Spoilers/Timeline**: Slight _Asterisk_/Set in the future

**A/N**: I'm back already. You guys, these two are not good for my non-writing life. Honestly, I just can't even... Also, the number of times I re-read this today is sorta crazy. It all jumbled after awhile, but I think everything's where it should be. Huge thanks to **K. Elisabeth** for the quick grammar save.

**Disclaimer**: Suits doesn't belong to me; title found in BSB's _Just Want You To Know._

* * *

She shifts the five albums remaining on the shelf to the couch, wondering if, once it's fixed, she should move some of them to the shelf above it. It does have some extra room, which would help alleviate the overcrowding; the Ds are surprisingly numerous in his collection.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Donna pulls the entire shelf out. She could have easily called maintenance, but it's an easy fix and there's a certain amount of pride in making sure his office runs smoothly. Plus, they would have been waiting for someone just to come and _look _at it for weeks.

Weeks which he'd use to drive her crazy. Sure, Harvey likes his things to have their place, but that wouldn't be the only reason why. He'd know it would frustrate her—they're the best in the whole goddamn firm, the office should reflect it—and would spend every day of those weeks reminding her in some way.

No, this was easier.

It's late, Jessica having been the last to wave goodnight about forty minutes ago. She'd left not long after, returning in yoga pants and a worn Yankees tee. He'd just tilted his head towards her and smiled before going back to the contract he was reviewing.

He's still working at his desk now, an album playing softly, and there are times when she can feel his eyes on her.

It's been like that a lot lately. Harvey's always been driven—focused—but more and more she's found him in his office after everyone else has left, listening to Charlie Parker or reading Raymond Chandler. And she can count the "mornings after", when comes in exhilarated, but with his hair a touch too sleek and his vest slightly askew because he'd been in a rush to send whatever the flavor of the night had been on their way, on one hand.

There were times in the past where she would have needed some sort of chart just to—

She shakes her head, refocusing on the job in front of her. She'll just re-drill two new holes; it'll move the shelf closer to the one below it, but it should still work.

It's the fourth time her hair falls in her face that does it. Exasperated, she turns towards him, eyes narrowing.

"Could you get off your ass and hand me the screwdriver?"

He considers it for a moment then stands, crossing the room and picking up the aforementioned tool. She takes a few steps forward (she really wants to get done... that's all...), meeting him halfway.

Of course, it's not that easy. Just as she's about to take the screwdriver, he yanks it away, holding it just out of her reach.

"Harvey..." Her voice is deceptively quiet. Dangerous. It flares something in him so strong that he almost misses the rest of her threat.

(Not that he doesn't know where this is going anyhow.)

"Do I have to send you to time out? You should know better than..." She lunges at him, laughing at his look of shock, which turns into something else before settling on slight indignation. He's fighting his own laughter as he steps back, moving the screwdriver further from her grasp once again.

"Ok, ok... don't need you... ruining my tie..." He stops, inhaling sharply as she pushes against him, reaching under his outstretched arm.

If they were in some clichéd romantic comedy, time would seem to stop, but it doesn't. It just reels ahead, his fingers lingering on hers a moment longer than necessary. And then, suddenly, she's pressed against the front of his desk, his hands buried in her hair.

Part of her wonders why now, but a larger part of her _knows_. Has seen—felt—it coming for months. Just like she knows it's different this time not just because it has to be, but he wants it—

And, oh god, what was he doing with his left hand?

She gasps, one arm drawing him even closer, the other pushing against the edge of the desk. His mouth is pressed hotly to hers, teeth tugging at her bottom lip as his thumb strokes over her hipbone.

Eyes slamming shut, she arches her back as he groans against her. His fingers slip under the hem of her tee and—

*THUNK*

"What was..." He sighs as her forehead falls to his shoulder and he notices that the baseball usually near his inbox—the one that had been sitting next to her left hand—is nowhere to be seen.

Following all possible trajectories, he finally finds it at the base of the lamp to his right, one of its legs now swinging precariously through the air.

"Come on, slugger..." His hand skims up her back before he steps away, picking up his jacket. "Enough putting in hours for triple overtime, we can get Mike to finish the shelf in the morning."

"But..." She grabs her purse, hastily throwing her tools inside before pulling him back to her and kissing him soundly. Her fingers lace through his as she breaks away, tugging towards the door. "What about the lamp?"

Grinning, he brushes kisses across her throat, voice low in her ear as he trails after her. "We can... fix... that tomorrow night..."


End file.
